


Litost

by melonbug



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Suicidal Ideation, minor selfharm, onesided Loki/Thor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 18:46:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2822372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonbug/pseuds/melonbug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Mother,” he says, the word leaving him before he can stop it. He looks down, at cold, blue hands and his heart freezes, cold like he is, like the air around him is, and when he breathes, his breath is visible, a cloud of white fog. When he looks up again, his mother is standing before him, studying him, hands outstretched to touch him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Litost

**Author's Note:**

> Litost- Litost is a nearly untranslatable Czech word, a state of feeling miserable and humiliated. “Litost is a state of torment created by the sudden sight of one’s own misery,”
> 
> This fic has been in progress for over two years. And finally it is done. What a relief.

The casket is cold, is the heart of cold, and so the entire room is cold, the area around it and the breath that catches in his chest as he hovers his hands next to the handles, willing himself to touch it, is also cold.

When he does finally touch it, curls his hands around the handles at either side to lift it, he is not entirely certain why. Even as the cold spreads _through_ him, he can not quite understand why he would do this to himself.

Perhaps to know. Perhaps the truth is worth the pain?

_it is not, it never ever is_

He thinks of the Frost Giant that had grabbed him on Jotunheim, of his deserving death, but also of the truth left behind at his touch. And that Jotun died not because of the monster he was, but because he _saw_ , and because it was his touch that awakened it.

The Casket of Ancient Winters, he thinks, perhaps could be his, perhaps could be a tool with which he could gain the things he wants. A bargaining chip, dangle it in front of the Jotuns and watch them _dance_. But no, not that, because even as he hefts it up, heavy as it is, the truth is _there_ , at the forefront, and such thoughts fade in the wake of the horror.

The blue starts at his hands, and it spreads like a disease throughout him, and he watches, but can not bring himself to let go of the cause.

And when it is done, when he knows that every inch of him is as blue as his hands, he realizes he stands there a monster.

There is a noise behind him, a startled, worried sound, and he finally, finally lets go, and turns around to find Frigga standing on the steps, her expression unreadable but undeniably sad. Loki’s skin is still blue, still too _too_ cold, but she looks on him without disgust, without any of the things he is surely deserving of.

“Mother,” he says, the word leaving him before he can stop it. He looks down, at cold, blue hands and his heart freezes, cold like he is, like the air around him is, and when he breathes, his breath is visible, a cloud of white fog. When he looks up again, his mother is standing before him, studying him, hands outstretched to touch him.

He flinches back, horrified that she would touch him like this, that she should see him like this, but she doesn’t stop. She catches his face between her hands, and the warmth of her skin burns, but he can not bring himself to pull away now.

“Loki,” she says softly, carefully. “My son.”

The words break something in him, and he wrenches himself from her grasp. “No,” he gasps out, “No, not your son.” He looks down again, at his trembling hands, but the blue has finally receded. The cold hasn’t, though. He’s still too cold.

“Don’t,” Frigga says, “Do not think such poisonous thoughts.”

Loki can’t look at her, can not meet her eyes though he knows they are on him, and he feels a broken sob leave him. “No,” he says. “No,” as if saying it will not make this so, as if hoping hard enough will make it all go away. He looks at her, at last, and his heart breaks again at the way she looks at him, with too much love and too much motherly affection. “What am I?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

And she looks at him, just looks, for a long moment, too long a moment, before speaking. “You are Æsir,” she begins softly, “You are Son of Odin, and brother of Thor, and–”

“No!”

She looks– She looks hurt, is the only way of describing it and Loki hurts, as well, to see it.

“I am a monster,” he says. “I am a–”

“No,” she tells him, “You are not–”

“Yes!” he shouts, and his voice echoes throughout the room, echoes back to him, yesyesYES. He’s crying, he realizes, as he stares at her, as he tries to catch the breaths that won’t come to him, his chest too tight, his head too light, the world seems to spin around him– “What am I?” he asks again, “Tell me what I really am.”

She doesn’t answer, brings her hand to her mouth, but doesn’t say anything.

“Tell me!

“Loki,” she murmurs, but says nothing further for a second and the second drags on until the silence it leaves is deafening, filled only with their breathing and what he tells himself is not the sound of his own, broken sobs. “Odin found you,” she begins at last, looking away, stepping back to give him his space. “He found you abandoned in a temple, at the end of the war.”

Abandoned. Left to die. She does not say it, but the words are there.

“In Jotunheim,” Loki breathes, casting his gaze downward.

“Yes,” she confirms, “Yes, in Jotunheim, but–” Her hand slips beneath his chin, to lift his head. “Loki, look at me.”

He does.

“You were born Jotun, son of Laufey, but–” Her words catch in her throat, and she stares at him with eyes that are too sad, too hurt, and he thinks she might pull him close once more, hug him maybe, but she doesn’t. “Loki, my son, that is not–”

“Laufeyson,” he echoes, looking at her. “I am Jotun, I am–”

“You are my son. You are Odinson.”

“I am not, I am– I am not,” he repeats it like a mantra, disbelieving. “I am a monster.” The word is thick on his tongue, heavy and full of too much meaning, too much truth.

Frigga steps forward, into his space. “Do not say that,” she says, “Do not even think it, Loki.”

“But it is the truth,” he says, “It is–”

“It is not.” Frigga catches his face again, forces him to look at her when he refuses. “I am your mother, Loki,” she tells him, “And you are my son. You have been my son since the moment Odin laid you in my arms. Please, please understand that.”

He wraps his hands around her wrists, looking at her, anchoring himself to her, to his mother, because she is, he can not look on her and deny it, he can not meet her eyes and say it isn’t so.

“Mother,” he murmurs, confirming it. Her face softens, and it is enough to break his heart. She pulls him to her, into a hug, and he allows it, burying his face in her shoulder.

-

He sits, later, by his father’s side, watching him, watching his mother watch him, and counting the beats of every second as if willing time, itself, to stop.

“He is in the Odinsleep,” Frigga tells him, and he knows this, he has seen it before, many years past. “He will be alright.”

“I know,” he says, but looking at her does not make it any better. She looks as if he has drawn his last breath, looks at Loki as if he is also about to draw his.

He wishes he were.

“Loki,” Frigga says softly, and she is looking at him, he realizes. Loki meets her gaze. "I am sorry.” Loki can not answer her, and, after a moment, he looks down, at Odin, just to draw his gaze away from her face.

It hurts.

She stands– he hears her, sees the large, sweeping movement of her dress out of the corner of his eyes as she approaches, and then her strong hand against his shoulder is the only other sign that she is there.

“Loki,” she says again, quieter than before. “It will be alright.”

“Will it really, mother? Will it?” He can not imagine it, can not envision a future that will ever again be alright. “Thor is on Midgard, powerless and– and lost to us, and father lays in the Odinsleep, and I- I sit here, idle, I sit here with nothing–”

I sit here a monster. He does not say it, but she knows, she knows as mothers do, as his mother always knows. It does not surprise him that she was there, when he turned around, skin blue and heart cold. It does not surprise him that she felt his torment, his horror, and sought him out.

He looks at her, and thinks, not for the last time, that he does not deserve her. He does not deserve any of this.

“You will rule,” she whispers, and the words shake him, frighten him, even as he has, for so long, longed to hear them. She pulls away from him, to stride across the room, and without her presence by his side, he is cold once more.

She returns, though, and she brings with her his father’s spear, Gungnir, and holds it out to him, no, presents him with it, as one would a gift.

He looks from it, to her, confused, her words still ringing too loud in his head.

_you will rule_

“The Throne is yours,” she says and that is it.

“I don’t understand,” he replies, “I don’t– I don’t understand.” He reaches out for it but can not bring himself to take it. His hands hover just over the handle, trembling too much, giving away too much of what he is feeling. “I could not– I cannot,” he says.

It is not what he has wanted– it is not what he wants now, even as he allows her to place the spear into his hands. He does not want to be king, only what comes with it, only what it means for him to be king. He wants his father’s acknowledgement, he wants Odin to look at him and bestow him with such an honor. He wants him to be proud.

But not this. This is not what he wants.

_he doesn’t deserve it_

“You must,” she says, “With your father in the Odinsleep, and Thor–” Frigga curls her hands around his, where they are fisted too tight, white-knuckled, around the handle of Gungnir. “You could be a great King, Loki.” Her voice is soft and encouraging, always the mother, always the voice of reason in the back of his mind.

Could. He could be, but what does that mean? How far can such a word go?

He doesn’t want to, though. He doesn’t want to be King.

“You were born to be a King, Loki,” she continues and he snaps his gaze up to meet hers .

_you were both of you born to be kings_

“Of what?” he asks, and, for a brief second, he finds it in himself to hate his mother. “Of beasts, of– Of savages and monsters?” He thinks of Laufey, on his throne.

She steps away from him, eyes narrowed. “No, Loki,” she tells him, “No, not that–”

“This throne is not mine, was never to be mine,” he continues, voice growing louder, and he is shaking, but with his rage this time. “You know as well as I that Thor–”

“Stop this, Loki,” and her voice is low and dangerous. He doesn’t stop.

“Was I ever worthy? Was I ever good enough in his eyes for this,” he asks, looking to Odin and then looking to her again. His hands curl impossibly tighter around Gungnir and the length of it trembles in his hands with the tremor that runs through him.

“Yes,” she says, “Always.”

“Then why, why was it Thor?” He is yelling, he is crying, and his mother looks at him, with an expression so unreadable it destroys him. “Why was it always Thor, who would be crowned King and as his first act invade another realm! Who would– Who would act without thinking, I do not understand it, I can not hope to understand this–”

“Stop this!” she shouts, and at her command, everything does. There is nothing, the silence huge and stretching, and Loki stands there, breathing too hard, shaking too much, and watching her. “Do not do this to yourself, do not.”

At once, she is again by his side, closing the space between them with her arms as they catch his shoulders.

“Do not let this define you, Loki,” she murmurs softly, “This is not who you are.”

“Then what am I?”

She has no answer for him, only more advice, because that is what mothers do, that is what she does. He loves her no less for it (even as he had, moments before, despised her).

“You are a creature of your own making, Loki,” she tells him, “And I will not see you become a monster, I will not have you thinking such things about yourself.” He stares at her, wide eyed and distraught still. Still so very shaken, straight to the core, by the revelations of the day, and his mother stands before him, the picture of calm and love and motherly perfection.

She is somehow exactly what he needs in his moment, and he hates that he should need it at all (but loves her all the more for being that for him).

“Do not let this define you,” she says again, and it is a mantra now, something to remind him. “You have this opportunity, Loki, you have this chance to become what you want to be.”

“I am to be the king,” he whispers softly, straightening Gungnir and holding it as it is meant to be held. The weight is too much in his hands, unfamiliar and uncomfortable, foreign. It is a perfect metaphor.

“And you will be a great King.”

_could_

-

He sits on the throne, and it fits him ill. It is no surprise, he knew this, but he also wonders if it would have fit Thor any better.

_no_

His mother is gone now, still by his father’s side, and he is alone, with only her words left to help him, and only the truth to crowd his mind with it’s horrors.

He does not want to be a bad king, to add to everything else that is wrong with him, and so he does not want to be king at all.

But here he is, on the throne.

He does kingly things, makes decisions, issues orders, and that fills the time for a few hours, until there is nothing left to be done but sit and rule.

And in the idle time, spent doing nothing, being useless, he thinks of his brother, who is not here to see this. And then suddenly, suddenly, he misses Thor.

His too bright, too loud presence, and his too hard claps on the shoulder that send Loki stumbling, and his too loud voice echoing throughout the halls of the palace, and–

_know your place brother_

He does not miss that. He does not miss his shadow.

-

Loki sleeps, but sleep no longer comes easy to him.

He dreams of Jotunheim, of Laufey’s cruel smile. He dreams of dying there, bleeding out into the snow, and as he draws his last breath, on the verge of waking from the nightmare, Thor stands over him and laughs.

He wakes and he is cold.

-

Loki visits Thor, on Midgard, and he is a sad sight to see when Loki appears to him. Powerless and mortal, as he sits in a chair in a room with walls so white they make even Loki blanch to see them. And Thor is resolute and resigned, but something sparks in his eyes when he sees Loki that makes the god hurt.

“Brother,” he says, and it is a rasp, his voice hoarse and broken even on that one word. But he looks at him, hopeful.

Loki is not sure how to tell him that he has not come to bring him home. He knows that is what Thor wants, why Thor looks at him so. (Not because he misses him, and that hurts more).

“Thor,” he says, coming to stand beside him, to rest a hand against his shoulder in what he hopes must be a comforting manner. It is a false gesture, done only by force of habit. He has little sympathy for Thor now, for the situation he has put himself into.

“Has something happened?” Thor asks, croaks, the words too forced. Thor is afraid. He is afraid of why Loki has come to him.

And, Loki thinks, it would be so easy to lie to him now. Let him believe their father dead, tell him misfortune has befallen Asgard, that all of it, all of it is Thor’s fault. Give him a taste of how it feels to be blamed.

And Thor, here on Midgard, trapped and powerless and nothing, would be none the wiser.

This is what the once powerful Thor has been reduced to. This.

“Father is–” and the words do not come. Loki is a liar, with too much ease and too much practice, and yet he can not, now, feed such a lie to his brother. Not like this. “Father is in the Odinsleep,” he tells him instead, tells him the truth.

Something sad flickers across Thor’s face, and he bows his head, looking away. “He Sleeps?” he murmurs, seeking another confirmation, seeking some kind of comfort that Loki can not now give him.

“He does. I know not for how long.”

Thor nods. "And what has– What has become of Asgard, brother?" He worries, and he worries for good reason.  Loki sits on the throne, and he hears whisperings, murmurs, of the unrest in Jotunheim, in the wake of Thor's assault. And he knows it won't be long before something must be done about it.

And Thor knows this. Thor is sometimes foolish, far too often hasty, but he realizes, now, the consequences of his actions.

"Asgard is well," Loki tells him, stepping away to cross the small prison Thor has gotten himself into. "I rule, while father is in the Odinsleep."

He watches Thor carefully, to see the reaction at his words, but there is little, if any. A brief frown, something akin to surprise, maybe, but nothing more. No words, of praise or otherwise, and Loki is not certain which he really wants to hear.

Which he really deserves to hear more.

_he deserves none of it, really_

"Can I–" Thor pauses, drops his eyes to the table and swallows visibly. "Can I come home, brother?" He looks to Loki on the last word, on brother, as if Loki still is. And Thor does not know, Loki can not say he faults him for not knowing, and yet it stirs something angry and dark inside of him, to have such a reminder thrown in his face. To even see Thor, and what he stands for. Everything Loki is not and never will be, the golden son, the heir.

But Loki is King now, where his brother is not.

Loki looks at him carefully and does not answer him, but his silence is answer enough. Thor's shoulders slump.

This is what has become of a God.

"I see," he murmurs. Thor is bumbling and too loud, too quick to act, but he is no idiot.

"I am sorry," Loki says to him, and he is. He is.

He has not the power to bring Thor home, but something hurts in him to see his brother like this. Another part of him, though, delights in it, to finally see him in his place.

_know your place, brother_

To suffer this, to be brought down to the level of a mortal, at the hands of their father, who has given Thor nothing but chance after chance, time and again. And to know that this punishment is fitting of his behavior, is deserved.

And then Loki remembers that this is his fault. That it was he who brought the Frost Giants into Asgard, for no other purpose than to ruin his brother's big day. And his stomach turns and he suddenly can not look at Thor.

Perhaps less deserved, then, considering Loki's role in it.

Thor stares at him, and Loki pretends he does not see the tears that are there, that are close to spilling.

"No, brother. I am the one who is sorry. I am– I am sorry," Thor says. He is sincere. He is too sincere, and Loki nods, accepting the words, the apology he does not deserve.

It is enough for now, and Loki thinks to leave him with that, but as he turns, he catches sight of Thor in the mirror of the door, and he stops. Thor’s face has crumpled, all at once, and it reminds Loki, suddenly, of how alone his brother is here on Midgard.

Alone, without him, or their father, or their mother.

He thinks of Mjolnir, of Thor’s struggle to reach it, and of his subsequent failure to lift it. He is unworthy, now, and the weight of that, of all it means, is there in his expression, so pronounced on his face, but only when he thinks Loki can not see it.

“It was cruel of him,” Loki says, turning back, thinking aloud, because he wants Thor to know, to understand just what this is. This is his punishment, for what he has done. “It was cruel of father to put the hammer so within your reach, knowing you could never lift it.” And because Thor’s expression does not change, does not shift now that Loki has seen it, he says again. “And I am sorry.”

For his own role in it, more than anything else really. He is not sorry that this is happening, because Thor needs this, even if he has yet to realize it. But Loki is sorry that it was his own, spiteful actions that led to it, that finally brought their father to see Thor as Loki has always seen Thor.

And it hurts, to think that Thor should be punished for his actions on Jotunhiem, deserved as it was, but that he, for his part in it all, should be rewarded with the Throne.

He is undeserving. He will always be undeserving.

He does not regret it though, not even for a moment.

_but he does_

Thor takes a slow, ragged breath, and carefully does not look at him. “It is alright, brother,” he says, as if Loki is suddenly the one in need of comfort. “I deserve– I have brought this upon myself, and I will reap the consequences.”

And there Thor sits, Loki realizes, with his whole world crashing down around him. And how ironic that Thor should reflect, so accurately, his own thoughts on himself, should suffer such a similar crisis, and yet neither of them can truly be there for the other.

Loki thinks of blue, spiralling up his arms, and cold, and his own breath, a visible fog. And he thinks of that feeling, as he realized what it was and what it meant.

Not Odinson, but Laufeyson. But not even that, not even Laufeyson because he was left to die. He is nothing and no one’s, with no place to go, and he sits on the throne of Asgard, a traitorous son, not even worthy of those who love him, of his place now in life. 

_you are not worthy of the loved ones you have betrayed_

He looks at Thor one last time and leaves, without a goodbye.

-

Mjolnior cries, without Thor.

It sits, alone, on a pedestal of mud and Earth, and Loki stands above it and listens, daring himself to touch it. He reaches out, feels the energy resonate outward from it and, at long last, curls his hand around the handle.

It howls at his touch.

He does not let go, thinks: if Thor is not the worthy son, then what does that make me? Does that make me worthy, yet?

He pulls, but Moljnior does not move, does not budge, and Loki frowns. He tries once more, though he already knows, now, tries simply for his own sake, for that little desperate hope that curls tight inside of him.

Nothing happens, still, and the hope shatters.

He let’s go and turns, looks to the direction in which he knows Thor still resides and thinks, were he the truer son, would he be worthy then?

-

Where Mjolnior howls, is loud and violent battlecry, Gungnir sings, is offkey and twisted song.

It is a weapon, his fathers weapon, old as him, old as time, and Loki sits on the throne and holds it like something too delicate. It thrums, with too old energy and ancient power, and Loki detests it like the old, frightening thing that it is.

It does not answer to him, does not speak to him, hums a song of a language so old even Loki does not know it. It lives, he thinks, but remembers nothing of a time that is too long gone.

And it does not accept him, only tolerates him, like so many others, and how cruel it is Loki thinks, that a weapon would know what he is and what he is not.

_he is not the true king, this is not his place_

It is not his, it is not for him to hold, and yet he holds it, as a symbol for what he now is, and how accurate a symbol it is.

He is King, and so he holds The Weapon, The Spear.

_but he is not The King, and so The Weapon will not heed him_

-

He goes to his father, to his mother, who still holds vigil by his side, and he sits. The day is done, and he is not exactly tired from it, but he is exhausted, emotionally, mentally. Physically, his body drags, desires sleep he can not remember having since the truth came out. How long has that been? Days, now, he thinks.

Frigga looks at him fondly, her smile sad but there, and it is another small comfort.

His mother loves him, he can not deny it, but Odin?

“Does Odin love me?” he asks, “Does Odin love me as he does Thor? As much as Thor?” He looks at his mother.

“Your father loves you, Loki,” she corrects. “He has always loved you.”

He doubts it, has never doubted anything quite so much as he has this.

(She doesn’t mention Thor, though, makes no comparison, gives no acknowledgement of that part of the question and he tries not to think about what that might mean.)

“You are our son,” and there’s that word again– “You are loved, Loki.” And she reaches over, to curl her hand around his and squeeze, and he closes his eyes, nodding.

He is loved.

The thought plagues him.

-

He goes out to the Bifrost one morning, while the stars still hang low over the distant sky, and he sits, and stares out across nothing.

It is his favorite spot, this place, calming and peaceful in it’s way, filled only with the soft noise of the waves below and the hum that the Bifrost gives off, always.

He sits to clear his mind, and thinks no thoughts, for once, for a startling, perfect moment. All is right.

At long last, though, the clouds return, the haunt of his own thoughts brought with them, and he drops his gaze to the rolling waves below. The water reflects the sky, reflects darkness though it is moving and Loki looks down from nothing into nothing, still.

The day is done, and the sun is gone, and everything is dark _dark_ , save for the Bifrost, the light of it, pale and golden and vague, only noticeable because one looks to notice it.

But it is there.

He feels the giant’s Gaze on him, and it unsettles him, to feel his eyes so close, to know that Heimdall, who can See, gifted as he is, and can Know, always sees Loki for what he is.

He does not like it, and so he does not like Heimdall.

He did once, had spent hours out on the Bifrost as a child, in this very spot, fascinated and curious, filled with childlike wonderment, but it is a past time.

Once, _once_ , he had even thought it sad that Heimdall was gifted as he was, had thought it a curse, rather, that the giant must stand guard for all eternity, must See and Know always. A terrible privilege.

Odin’s most loyal, Odin’s right hand, honored with this, in return for his fealty.

His mother had told him, once, that Odin has a reason for everything that he does, to be learned in time, and Loki thinks on that now, thinks of himself, a Jotun, stolen from a temple. Thinks of Thor, on Midgard, powerless and mortal. And he looks at Heimdall and thinks of him, here, rewarded with punishment.

He can not fathom it, how Odin thinks, why Odin has done the things he has done.

An old man, he thinks, a crazy old man, too far out of his own time.

_father_ , his mind whispers, and he feels guilty, almost, for thinking such thoughts.

-

He does not hate Sif, even though perhaps what he feels for her is something very near. Despises her, for good reason, but it is not entirely hatred or loathing.

She is a warrior and she is powerful and he respects her, however grudgingly. He was there when she approached Thor for the first time and challenged him as a warrior would and Thor laughed in her face and bid her begone. And he was there, watching, when she put him in his place and brought him to his knees.

He had liked her once, (had thought how great is it that Thor has an equal in a woman,) but she had never liked him, had dismissed him from the start, and so there was nothing to be done about it.

But he respects her.

She approaches the throne, followed closely by the Warriors Three, and she looks at him, where he sits, and falters.

“Where is the King? Where is Odin?” she asks, and he tells her. And she looks at him, after, as if this is all somehow his fault, as if all of the blame to be had in the universe lies solely upon his shoulders. And she looks, then, to the warriors behind her, and then steps to him, pleading to him as she would her king.

He is her King.

And how quickly that changes things, he thinks.

“Loki,” she says. “You must bring Thor home.” She does not speak to him as she would a King, though, but her posture drops, and she lowers her head, submissive to him. But her words are a demand more than anything.

He pulls himself from the throne, to put himself on even footing with her, to better speak with her. (And in the back of his mind, he tells himself that this is not to reel himself in, not to remind himself of what his place truly is.)

“No,” he tells her, and again, that changes things. Her jaw clenches, and her posture shifts back to what it was, and something flashes in her eyes, not so friendly and not so happy.

“You must!”

He frowns. “And yet I will not.”

She gapes at him, something like a fish, and it is enough to amuse him, so much so that he has to fight a grin that would surely be inappropriate in light of the situation.

Fandral pushes past her then and to Fandral, he is no stranger. He knows how the man works, how he gets what he wants, and Loki steels himself against the slight smile and careful tilt of his head.

“Loki,” he says, as if they were old friends, and they are something close to it, maybe, but not friends. But it is as he would speak to Thor, and so he listens, anyway. “Surely he has been punished enough?” he continues, looking at him hopefully.

They want him to bring Thor back and it twists his stomach.

He turns his back on them, approaching the throne once more. “I am flattered,” he begins smoothly, sitting again. “That you would all believe it to be within my power to even bring him back.” He raises an eyebrow at them, again, amused. Sif does not find it amusing.

“Surely a sorcerer as powerful as yourself would possess such an ability.” It’s Volstagg that speaks, and Loki is not sure if it is sarcasm or more flattery.

“But I do not,” he says.

“You’re lying,” Sif hisses, narrowing her eyes dangerously and he stands, angry.

“And you would presume to know me so well, Sif?” he shouts, moving towards her, towering over her, and even so, she looks down on him. “You would have me overturn a punishment delivered by Odin himself?”

And that shuts her up, the fear of Odin. She says nothing, but her expression says it all. Pinched and angry and ready for a fight that he will not give her the satisfaction of having with her. There is a pregnant pause, and he takes it to calm himself, to still the rage within him, before speaking again.

“Had I the power,” he begins, softer than before. “Had I the power to even bring Thor back, and I can not say that I would, it is not my decision to make.” He loves Thor just as much as they do, but where Thor is their friend, he is Loki’s brother, and Loki can find the faults in him that no one else does, that no one else wants to see. (Just as Thor has always done the same in return, find fault in everything Loki does or says.) And he can not, from his brief visit with Thor, say that he has deemed himself worthy of return.

“Odin said he must prove himself worthy,” he tells them. “And when he does, he will be allowed to return.”

And that is the end of it.

Except it is not, because he looks at them and thinks of the impossibly hopeless expression on Thor’s face when he had told him the same thing, when he had said that he could not bring him home, and he feels a sudden urge to do something.

“You may visit him,” he says and Sif lifts her gaze from the ground to look at him as if he were speaking in tongues. “If you wish.”

“You would allow it?” she asks and she is suspicious and he can not blame her, though there is no reason for her to be. He is a liar and a trickster by his very nature and so even he is surprised at himself that he has no ulterior motive.

“I would.” He steps back, distances himself from them, and gestures towards the doors. “Go to Heimdell, have him open the bifrost for you.”

There are glances shared between them, a hushed whisper from Hogun, who has thus far remained silent, to Volstagg. Sif does not look away from him, and she lingers before him, still, even as the others appear satisfied with his words. She says nothing, though, but her expression says it all, a mixture of contempt and distrust, and he returns her gaze as steadily as she gives it to him.

“Go,” he says again, and then they finally do, with too much hurry and rush, lest he change his mind.

-

Sif comes to him later, after their return. She comes alone, and Loki sits and watches her approach, eyes narrowed and ready for a fight, bored and agitated from the work of the day and ready to rise to whatever bait she lays him.

She doesn’t.

She stops and looks at him, and the smile she gives him he knows is forced, but she speaks and her words are sincere.

“Thank you,” she says, and Loki schools himself, unwilling to let her see his surprise.

“How fares my brother?” Loki asks her in response, because he had spied on them, on Midgard, but he cannot yet tell if Thor’s too big smiles and too loud laughter while with his friends was real or not.

“He is well,” she tells him. “He has found a woman.” Something sad crosses her face, the corners of her mouth twitching in a brief frown, and that, Loki thinks, he can understand. She is jealous. This woman Thor has met upsets her.

“I know,” Loki says. He has watched Thor too closely, has seen how he looks at the mortal, at Jane, as he has heard Thor call her.

She is changing him, is shaping him into something else, something not Thor, and Loki can not decide if he is glad of it, if the change is something he should welcome.

Sif nods and, all at once, her expression shifts. Gone is the frown and the furrow in her brow, and in it’s place is something like resignation. “This is good for him, though.”

She does not tell Loki he was right, but Loki takes it as a victory all the same.

-

Things are well again, until they aren’t.

-

He wakes, one night, with a scream on his lips and he is blue. He curls his fingers into the sheets, and there is frost there, the distinct sound of it crunching in his fists the only noise to break the silence save for his own, frantic breaths.

He has dreamed, again, (and not for the last time,) of dying.

He does not sleep again that night.

-

When he rises, he goes to the Bifrost, and Heimdall gives him a sharp look but does as he asks without argument and within moments he is on Jotunheim.

The landscape around him lurches out in all directions, an endless sea of ice and snow and frigid winds, and Loki walks and is not cold. He walks for what must be an age, walks and walks, and eventually, when the cold winds have finally gotten to him, have built up a thin layer of frost across him that he still doesn’t feel, he reaches Laufey.

-

“Have you come here to die, little prince?” Laufey stares down at him, mouth twisted into a cruel smirk.

Loki does not even know how to answer him, because, quite possibly, he has.

_he dreams of dying_

He ignores him, instead.

“I have come to talk,” he says softly, looking around, eyeing the guards who have moved closer, grips tighter on their weapons.

Coming here is a risk. He stands no chance of bargaining a peace, not on his own, and yet he has come anyway.

Laufey sneers at his words and steps down from his throne, approaching him. “I do not wish to talk,” he says and, as he nears, Loki draws back, flinches away from him before he can stop himself. Laufey does not frighten him and yet Loki is scared. It is what Laufey stands for, what it means to stand before him now, to look on his birth father and know that this is the monster that sired him.

He is unprepared for this. He should not have come.

“I would have you dead for what you have done,” Laufey continues, sizing him up, red eyes narrowed and angry. He comes to a stop before him, too _too_ close, and Loki manages a deep, cold breath that burns his lungs and hurts. “My men are dead,” Laufey tells him. “And I have no casket. You led them to their death with naught but a false promise.”

_there are traitors in the house of Odin_

“You are a deceiver,” he hisses, and Loki steals himself for what he sees stirring in Laufey’s growing anger.

“You have no idea what I am,” he snaps back, bracing himself, readying himself and–

The frost giant grabs him about the throat, suddenly and violently, his grip tight and cold, so cold that even Loki, as he is, is fazed by it. And there is a brief moment, as Loki feels that cold creeping through out him, across his face, into his eyes, to the very roots of him, where there is nothing but silence. The guards that are closest look on in something very close to horror, sharing whispers amongst themselves, and Laufey’s grip only tightens as he sees what Loki becomes at his touch.

Then Laufey snatches his hand away, let’s go of him with such force that Loki is nearly thrown to the ground. Loki steadies himself and resists the urge to clutch at his neck, to chase the blue away, to see that he is not turned monster at the monster’s touch.

His breath comes ragged, and he wills himself back to calmness, but he is shaking.

“Hello, father,” he finally manages to get out, as the last of the cold finally leaves him. Laufey blinks down at him, something unreadable in his expression.

“The bastard son,” he says coolly, but there is something there, something Loki can not place. “Laufeyson.”

“Odinson,” Loki hisses back. “I am no son of yours, who left me to die.”

Laufey grins, huge and cruel, and steps back, considering him. “And look at what you have become, a lapdog to Odin.”

_a monster, is what he has become, he is a monster_

“No,” Loki says. “No, I am a king.”

Laufey laughs. “The little prince is a king?” he says, amused, and Loki bites his tongue to keep from saying something he will regret. “And you have come to wager peace between us? After what you have done. You, traitor to the house of Odin?”

Loki is no traitor, though, only a bad son, only unworthy. He does not say it.

“I have come to talk,” he says again. “Nothing more.”

He does not delude himself into thinking he could bring peace.

In front of him, Laufey gestures to his guards, who lower their weapons. “I would have words with you, then,” he says, stepping past him. “Come, walk with me.”

Loki blinks, startled, but does as he is asked. The guards make no move to follow them.

Out in the cold again, in the howling winds and with the crunch of snow and ice under boot, Laufey talks to him, instead.

“I thought you dead,” he begins, his voice as cold as it was before, and he is a giant beside Loki, tall and towering, taking too large steps. Loki almost struggles to keep up. “A weak, sickly thing, born to me of an Æsir whore.” He talks calmly, as though talking of the weather, says whore with no more emphasis than he says Æsir or weak, but there is an edge to his voice, something low and frightening that creeps into it, and Loki has to quell the fear that builds in him. “To think that Odin had you all this time.”

And he says it as he said lapdog, as a reminder of what Loki has become. He is Odin’s, and that is despicable. He is Odin’s, and that is worse than being left for dead.

Loki wants Laufey dead, more in this moment than in any other so far. He plots, thinks of ways he could bring this about. Thinks, he could trick him into Asgard, lure him there, kill him in front of Odin, in front of Frigga, make them proud. Then Laufey levels him with a too red stare and Loki thinks monster and then he thinks _I can not._

He thinks of war, of stories of war, of bloodshed and pain, and thinks _I can not._

“Odin should have let you die. You are weak.”

Loki draws up short, his breath catching in his throat, and suddenly he does not care.

“I am weak no more,” Loki says, voice low, an unspoken threat there that Laufey does not miss. “I rule Asgard. I am King, while Odin Sleeps.”

Loki is unarmed, bringing into this place no weapons and wearing no armor. He is vulnerable, now, and Laufey looks down at him, destroys him in that too-red gaze, and Loki knows, suddenly, that what he says is so.

He is weak.

Laufey has brought him here to die.

The frost giant stops and grins at him, cruel and wicked, and Loki curls his hand into a fist, summoning magic to his fingertips, ready, frightened.

It would take but a gesture, but a thought, to bring to him a weapon, and yet he dares not do it, dares not make the same mistake as Thor. He would not raise a weapon against Laufey, the monster, his father, the King of the realm he stands in now. Not yet.

He will die for it, he thinks. He will surely die here.

_he dreams of dying in the snow_

There is no hope of peace, not now (not ever.)

“You are a fool, boy,” Laufey says, and his voice is gravel, is loud and rough, and Loki knows it is so, knows his words are true.

The power of a God is mighty, is strong, but the power of a Frost Giant, in it’s own element, surrounded by ice, is brutal and violent. It takes but a moment, and Loki sees it coming, he does, and in a second, he has in hand a spear, something with which to protect himself, but it matters not.

He feels the ice going through him before he sees it, feels the starburst of pain that colors his vision with spots, and his weapon falls from his hand, useless. Blood, too red against the backdrop of white all around him, splatters to the snow at his feet, and he looks down to see jagged spikes of ice protruding from his shoulder, from his chest.

And Laufey laughs.

His too big, too cold hand closes itself around Loki’s neck once more, and blue spreads across him, but it is not wanted. Loki struggles, a pained moment of sheer panic seizing him and he twists himself away, with nowhere to go but further into the spikes protruding from him.

He thinks he must scream at the pain, but his ears are ringing and he can not be sure the noise is not just the howling of the wind.

Laufey considers him a moment, eyes narrowed, before letting go. And it is through the cloud of pain, through the gasping, choked breaths, that Loki realizes the blue has not left him even at the absence of the monsters touch. It seeps through his veins, cold and wrong, and the blood that spreads from the wound burns with it’s heat, against such coldness.

It only hurts all the more. He does scream this time, a broken cry as he curls a hand around one of the spikes. It is blue, his hand, and it shakes against the ice.

He pulls magic to him, tries to focus on something to center himself, because his vision is clouding and he will not die here. He will not.

_he dreams of dying in the snow_

“I should have killed you myself,” Laufey says, stepping back. “I should have seen to it that you were well and truly dead that day.”

Loki drags in a ragged, pained breath and watches as ice forms around Laufey’s still extended hand, watches as the frost giant readies for a final blow. And Loki is trapped, unable to move forward or backwards, lest he tear himself further apart.

“I will not make the same mistake this time.”

He closes his eyes and takes another, too hard breath, deeper this time, and it hurts, it burns, and in a moment of pure desperation, he pulls hard on his magic, draws it to him and the ice beneath his hand shatters, and the world around him bends.

“Heimdall!” he gasps out, lurching away as best he can, free to move now, without the ice pinning him in place. And it is a hopeless cry, he knows, because surely Heimdall will not come to his aid here, will not open the Bifrost to him.

And then the world melts out of focus, shifts and twists, and rends open in a familiar way, and when he opens his eyes, he is on Asgard.

The dome of the Bifrost stretches out above him, around him, and the fizzing of energy as it closes behind him shakes him and hurts, aches, and he falls.

He isn’t aware of hitting the ground, but he’s on it, the cool stretch of solid floor beneath him, and he blinks up, blinks away growing spots, and sees his mother standing there. She is tall and elegant as always, but panic laces her features as she kneels beside him.

“Loki,” she says, and her face does not reflect the levelness of her voice, the calm, even tone in which she says it. He can still hear it though, beneath the surface, strained panic and fear and worry. “Loki, Loki open your eyes. Look at me.”

He’s closed them, he realizes, has not even noticed, so blurred and shaken is his vision, and he forces them open, meets her eyes, and there are tears there.

There’s a breathless moment, in which her eyes widen, in which he drags in a rough, ragged breath and coughs, tasting copper, tasting blood, and she moves over him, pressing soft hands against his chest, pushing at leathers and metal and armor to get to his wounds.

Warmth spreads through him at her touch, but the pain does not lessen, only sharpens and stings. He reaches out blindly, finds the folds of her dress and curls his hands into them, realizes that he’s going to ruin it with the blood on his hands, with the blood gathering slowly beneath him.

He lets out a broken noise, and she quiets him, pressing warmth and power into him, and he feels it slowly, feels the pain finally giving way to ache.

She is saving his life.

“Let me die,” he says, before he can stop himself. His voice is raspy and rough, and cracks on the final word. “Just let me die.”

“No,” she says firmly. “Loki, no, I will not allow it.”

“I’m so sorry, Mother,” is all he can say in response.

Better, though, he thinks, that he should die here. Against the warmth of his mother, loved, than hated, in the frozen wastes of Jotunheim, at the feet of a monster whose own blood runs through his veins.

-

He opens his eyes again, and he is alive. The pain is gone, leaving behind nothing but the ache and it hurts, all the same, an agonizing burn settled deep within his chest.

He breathes and even the breath aches, but he is alive.

Beside him sits his mother, but she does not look at him. Her expression is one he can not remember seeing on her in as long a time, shadowed and sad and tired, and how her, he thinks, that she would wear it when she believes he can not see her.

She is her age, before him. She is timeless, as Odin, something he has too often not noticed. It is harrowing to see.

He forgets, sometimes, the power she holds. She is not the Allmother, as Odin is the Allfather, she is not the birther of worlds, but she is close, and she bears that weight as if it were hers, because there is no one else left to do so. But she is Mother to him, and Mother to Thor, and Wife to Odin, and Queen to this realm, and she is all of these things, and she is strong. She holds herself well, holds her power well, weaves subtlety into her arts, magic into her words, comfort into every touch. She is an enigma.

“Mother,” he murmurs, and she blinks, once, and then she is, again, the mother he knows, her expression smoothing into something calm and kind. She looks at him, reaches out and strokes his cheek, pushes hair back from his face, and then takes his hand in hers.

“Loki.” His name is a sigh on her lips, resigned and sad, and it is him that brings that out.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He means it.

“I know,” she tells him. “I know.”

He sits upright with some effort, and she pulls away and then reaches forward again, not to press him back down into the sheets but to help him. He is injured still, his wounds only barely closed, but if he wishes to move she will not move to stop him.

He is thankful for that, for that small bit of freedom.

He hurts with the movement, had not realized, with his previous stillness, how wounded he still is.

“You worry me so, Loki,” his mother says, and it is not accusatory. Loki curls his hands into the sheets, worries his fingers into the fabric, and knows, knows so much it hurts. This is the kind of son he is.

She does not mean it that way, but it hardly matters. He knows.

“I know,” he murmurs, looking away from her.

He feels like a child again, receiving a scolding, only he is not. Frigga does not scold him now.

He curls forward, into himself, brings his knees up to rest his head against them, and he sighs. Beside him, Frigga moves, sits on the bed next to him and pulls him to her. He allows it, buries his face into her shoulder, and again, he is like a child seeking his mother’s comfort. And she is there, patient and loving.

“You nearly died,” she says softly, after some time of silence. He thinks, for a moment, that she is speaking of now, only she continues and he realizes she is not. “The first few weeks, after Odin brought you to me.” She pauses, something in the memory stopping her. “You were sickly, you-”

“I was weak,” he murmurs, remembering Laufey’s words.

“You were but a babe,” she says sharply, frowning. “And you were strong, because you survived it, you were stronger for it.” She slides away from him and stands.

“Odin brought you here, and I was happy, I was so happy. I loved you from the start, Loki, from the moment I held you. You were the son I wanted.”

She presses her hand to the sheets, smooths lines from it, an idle movement that Loki would think was out of nervousness if not for it being done by her hand.

“Thor,” he says, thinking aloud. “Was Thor not–” He stops, chokes on his own words for no reason, and Frigga meets his gaze when she speaks again.

“I love you as I love Thor,” she says. “I hold no more love for one of you over the other. You are both my sons, and I love you both equally.”

_but_

“But, before you, when it was only Odin and I, and Thor, I knew something was missing, I knew–” She stops, presses her lips into a thin line, and there is something, a story perhaps, in her eyes, in her expression, that he knows, suddenly, he will never hear. She stops and speaks no more on that.

“You were not of Asgard,” she continues after a beat of silence. “And Asgard is not Jotunheim, and so here, you struggled. This world did not suit you, did you no favors. It was harsh, and unforgiving, to you of Jotun birth, as Jotunheim would be to an Asgardian, and so–”

“I wept to think I would lose you,” she says.

Loki looks away from her, looks down at the sheets and picks at them with his fingers, traces the shadows the folds make.

“I can not lose you, too, Loki,” she says softly, a fleeting moment of weakness, of vulnerability. She sounds sad.

Loki nods, throat tight. “I know,” he says.

-

He tears the bandages away when she leaves, struck by a sudden urge to see his injuries. They fall away, bloodstained and torn, and underneath is–

Blue.

His wounds lay raw and healing and scabbed, and they are blue, the skin around them is blue. The sight of it sets something off inside of him, makes him ill, and he presses his fingers into the still fresh wounds, bringing pain until he sees spots.

He gasps from it, letting out a noise from deep in his chest, but does not let go.

He has been cursed, is what this feels like. Injured and wounded and Jotun, and now it heals but the Jotun does not dissipate. Injured with magic so deep it cuts him, cuts the spell that keeps him what he is, woven so far into his soul–

His soul hurts, and this is the price he pays.

He pulls his hand away, at last, and he bleeds.

-

Frigga brings him Apples, later, sliced and laid out on a platter and he eats at them slowly as she sits by his side. His strength returns little by little with each bite, wholeness returning to him, but he does not care, thinks only of how his wounds look, of how it will scar, thinks of blue, thinks of how he has disappointed even himself, going into Jotunheim and doing what he has done.

Father would not be proud, he thinks. This is the King he has become, who would seek out trouble the way he has.

_that is the King Thor would have become, but Odin would have beheld him as such with pride_

His mother sits and watches him and does not speak for the longest time.

When she does her voice is all mother, her posture is all mother, but again she does not speak to scold, her voice holds no accusations.

“What were you thinking, going into Jotunheim, Loki?” She asks, and it is but a question to sate something like curiosity, to sate her motherly concern.  Loki wishes she would scold him, instead, would yell at him and ask why he would do such a thing, because it is not something to be asked in the way she asks it.

He thinks hard on the question, thinks of going straight to Laufey with only one intention, thinks of his own bitter desire to cause trouble.

He remembers waking in the night, blue.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, looking down at the golden skin of the Apple in his hand, turning it over and over idly. “I thought, maybe–”

He doesn’t know what he thought. He doesn’t say anything more. Frigga does not press him to but looks at him with eyes that understand.

-

Later, when his strength returns, he breathes magic into the scars, pushes against the fabric of ancient magic woven there (Odin’s magic, an illusion too long lived, but shattered, now,) but the blue does not fade.

-

His mother comes to him again, and looks at him and he realizes she knows.

“Loki,” she says, pressing a hand to his chest, to where the scars lie beneath his clothes. They are healed completely now, nothing but jagged edges of scar tissue and blue, but it aches, still, deep within. Mental, he thinks it is, because surely there is no reason for it to still hurt so. Not now.

“Do not dwell on it,” she tells him, and it is good advice, he thinks.

He does not heed it.

-

Odin Sleeps, and Thor stays on Midgard, and he sits on the Throne, and everything goes back to normal.

_only nothing does_

-

He dreams, still. Still wakes with frightened gasps, once, with a scream.

One night he wakes and his mother is there. She says not a word but sits next to him in the bed, as she did when he was a child, and she stays until he sleeps again, stroking his hair, humming something soothing under her breath.

She knows and he hates that.

He is a king and his mother still comes to him to give him comfort.

-

She finds him and stops him, once, to give words, to counsel him as she always does. And his face is pinched, he knows, his shoulder aches, his chest aches, scar tissue burns and flares with pain. And she notices, stops her words and looks sympathetic, sad, and presses a hand against where they lay beneath leather and metal and armor.

“Loki,” she murmurs, and presses warmth into him until the pain becomes nothing but a dull throb. And it should be a relief but it is not. He is tired and lacking too much in patience and she is being motherly in that overbearing way that mothers sometimes are.

He catches her wrist, perhaps too hard, and stops her.

“I do not need coddling,” he hisses, and she jerks her hand away, startled.

“I am your mother,” she begins, voice raised in what could be anger, if she were capable of it.

“And I am a King,” he snaps back, eyes flashing, angry in return, tired of the way he is being treated even though he is really not, only tired of having to need it.

She straightens and, though shorter than him she towers above him. Her expression darkens and something frightening emanates from her, and Loki realizes that this is what his mother really is, what she can be. He has very rarely ever seen her grow truly angry, has only ever seen her in the way that she wishes everyone to see her. But she is something more, something as powerful as Odin, and it frightens him now to see this.

His breath catches in his throat and he stumbles back, shaken.

She follows him, moves close, catches his chin in her hand and forces him to meet her eyes. “Even Kings have mothers,” she says.

He doesn’t say sorry, though, can not bring words to his lips, throat too tight. But she must see something in his eyes, must understand, because she lets him go, her face softening.

_you are unworthy of the loved ones you have betrayed_

“I love you, Loki,” she says, and he nods, because he knows. She looks apologetic, looks sorry. She looks away, moves with grace but her motions seem stiff, seem ragged and old. She breathes something that might be a sigh and turns from him.

“I love you too, mother,” he manages, after a moment.

-

He sits, again, later, on the edge of the Bifrost, and looks down into the inky roll of the waves far below. He wonders if he could survive such waters if he were to fall. If he were to throw himself from the edge.

The urge is overwhelming but he does not move.

Heimdall stands nearby, nearer than before, and Loki looks at him, pushes himself back from the edge.

“Heimdall,” he says aloud, thinking to say something more but it does not come, and he no longer knows why he spoke to begin with. Heimdall fixes him with his too heavy gaze.

“Loki,” he says, his voice an ancient echo. Loki does not like it, it sets him on edge.

“You knew,” Loki says, thinking on the start, remembering never has an enemy slipped by my watch. “You knew it was I that let the Jotuns into Asgard.”

It is a confession, he realizes, even as he says it. It is the first time he has spoken the truth aloud.

“Yes,” Heimdall says. His voice reverberates, shakes Loki’s soul with its rumble, and Loki pushes himself to his feet.

“You should have said something,” Loki murmurs. Perhaps things would have gone differently, perhaps Thor would be here now, on the throne.

He curls his hand against his chest, against the scars and the blue. Perhaps he would not have found out the truth, then. And he thinks he would have that for a lie in it’s place, for something better that is not this. He would take it all back if he could.

But bringing the Jotun’s into Asgard, that he can not regret, even still.

_there are traitors in the house of Odin_

But no, really it is just his nature to cause trouble. It is just who he is. He has long ago learned to stop fighting it.

“And yet I did not,” Heimdall says, and Loki blinks, looks at him, had forgotten himself for a moment.

“No,” Loki says, “No, you did not.”

Loki steps to the edge, looks over once more. Thinks of falling. The frigid waters would kill him, surely, he decides.

“Why?” He looks at Heimdall again. “You hold no fondness in your heart for me. Why would you protect me?”

Heimdall does not answer him. Loki decides that that is better, probably. He thinks he knows the answer, anyway, thinks he realizes why, now. Loki is a trickster, is a deceiver, and he covers his tracks well. A suspicion, and knowledge without proof, even Odin could not act on such a thing, not quite.

He would have anyway, Loki thinks.

“I liked you, once,” Heimdall says in lieu of an answer.

Loki nods. “You did. And I liked you once, as well, when I was a child.”

He thinks of the sad, sad Giant of his childhood memories.

Heimdall gives a noise of assent, deep and shifting.

“You were a good child,” he says, as if reading his thoughts. And Loki hears it for what it really is. He was good, once.

-

He walks an edge, a fine one. Madness stands on one side, tempts him with quiet whispers from the shadows, with horrors that haunt his sleeping hours, his moments of reprieve. He sits on the throne and power consumes him.

It all goes to his head, slowly, between no sleep and nightmares and the stress put upon him. He did not want the throne, but it is everything he has ever wanted. And he sits on it now, tainted and marked, and he rules, a Jotun on the throne of Asgard, a monster.

And people bow to him, and fear him, and that is everything he has ever wanted, as well. To be acknowledged by the people who once looked on him with scorn, with harsh words.

_that is Loki the Liesmith, Loki the Deciever, Loki the TricksterProblemMonster, Loki of Chaos_

There is something that might be sanity there as well, though, brisk and bright and sharp. There, in his mother’s touch, in her comfort and her words. In the quiet moments, when he finds time to relax, to push the cloud of darkness from his thoughts.

It is not quite enough, and he is slipping, he knows. Looks out across the Bifrost too often, now, and devises awful plans, devises terror and pain and unthinkable things.

And he thinks, sometimes, how easy it would be to set the Bifrost to Jotunheim and let it destroy that world that is already dying. No real loss, the Jotuns. And father would be proud, surely.

And then he thinks, after, he could throw himself into the path of the Bifrost, as it crumbles under the weight of it’s burden. He, the last of them, and there will be no more Jotuns, then, no more monsters, only stories to tell to children at night to frighten them.

_when I grow up, I will slay all of the monsters_

_-_

He wakes one morning and his mind is tainted. He is angry and he hurts, and he would have others suffer for his pain.

He goes to Midgard, to Thor.

Thor is more himself now, when he finds him, and seeing him almost stays his anger. 

Almost.

He sits out on a low roof, alone, staring up at the stars (longing for home.) When he looks to Loki, sensing his presence, some kind of happiness shines in his eyes that was not there last they spoke.

That woman has done this to him, and Loki hates her, curses her.

Thor endures his punishment with too much happiness, now, and it is her fault.

“Brother!” Thor stands, grinning too big, but his face falls as Loki steps into the light and he gets a good look at him. “Loki,” he says, voice sharper and concerned, why is Thor so concerned for him? He does not deserve it, he does not deserve Thor.

“Thor,” he rasps, curling and uncurling his fist. He has to fight the urge to strike him, so strong is the desire within him.

“Brother, what is wrong? What has happened?” Thor’s eyes roam his face, taking in his haggard appearance, no doubt, and Loki steps to him, stumbles, but does not answer.

And then–

“I am not your brother,” he hisses under his breath. He pushes back, away, suddenly too too eager to put distance between them.

Thor hears him, always one to hear what he should not, to hear what he wants to hear. His face falls, and he looks confused.

“Brother I–” He looks Loki up and down. He looks hurt, looks sad. Loki swallows down his guilt. “I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t,” Loki snaps, turning his back on him, stalking away a pace and then turning to him again. Thor follows too close on his heels like a kicked puppy.

He looks at Thor, at Thor’s expression, hopeless and confused, and a thought comes to him that shouldn’t, unbidden and pushed forward by his own lunacy. “Did you know?” he asks, voice low. “Did you know, Thor?” He’s shaking, and he feels sick. “Is that why you took me to Jotunheim, why you were so adamant about going?”

Thor doesn’t answer him.

“Did you know?” Loki shouts, trembling too much and, in a moment of pure stupidity, he lunges forward, grabs Thor about the neck. He could break it with a flick of his wrists, could kill Thor here and now. Could choke the life out of him, but he refrains, just curls his fingers tight against his throat and keeps them there.

Thor looks at him, something shattering in his expression, and he brings his hands up to curl them around Loki’s wrists. “Brother, please–”

Loki cuts him off, snarling. “Did you know? Did Odin tell you what I really was?”

His shouting does something, must finally snap Thor’s patience, and his brother tightens his grip on his wrists and shouts back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Loki!” He’s visibly upset, and Loki looks at him, carefully, and knows he is telling the truth.

He lets go.

“I hate you,” he says. He moves to step away but Thor catches him fast by the shoulders, his grip too tight and too heavy, and Loki flinches at his touch, though he has no reason to.

“What has happened to you, brother,” Thor asks. “Why are you saying such things?”

Thor’s grip on him brings him back to himself, and Loki looks at his brother and aches with what he’s just said. He wants to say sorry but the apology will not come. He opens his mouth, though, to speak, to give some kind of explanation, only a soft, high voice sounds from behind him, feminine and curious, before words can come to him.

“Thor?”

He jerks away from his brother, turns to see the woman walking towards them hesitantly. She looks tired, looks at Thor, and does not see Loki, who is hidden from all eyes save for his brother’s. She sees Thor’s face, see’s everything Loki has seen, everything Loki has caused, and she stops short, frowning.

“Is everything alright?” She asks, and her eyes flicker hesitantly over him, then follow his gaze to the spot where Loki stands, looks at nothing, sees nothing, and Loki shifts, suddenly uncomfortable.

Thor looks at her and nods stiffly. “Everything is fine, Jane,” he says. He glances at Loki though, something pleading in his eyes, and Loki thinks, for a second, Thor wishes him to go, so that he might be alone with her, and then he realizes he has read him wrong.

_show yourself, brother_ , Thor mouths at him and Loki shakes his head, and then Thor says, please, and he can not say no to the look he gives him.

Only he does anyway, looks away from him and scowls.

Jane is clever though, and follows Thor’s gaze once more and–

“Is someone else here?” she asks, and Loki looks at Thor, who says, “Yes,” at the same time that Loki mouths _no_.

It matters not, though, because Loki could go now if he wanted, leave Thor the fool and be on his way, but suddenly, looking to where Jane stands, he thinks he would like to finally meet this woman who has so enamored the Mighty Thor.

His mood has passed, his anger gone, leaving nothing but resigned guilt and regret, and now, he thinks, is as good a time as any.

He sighs and shows himself, shimmers into existence, and Jane starts at the sight of him.

“Oh my god,” she gasps, and Loki can not help the crooked grin he gives her at that. Something like disbelief crosses her face and she steps forward, hesitant, wary, looking to Thor with too much open caution in her expression. Is his appearance really so startling, he wonders. She has seen the Warriors Three, and Sif, as well, and surely he is not so much different than them that she would be startled.

Perhaps it is the magic.

Loki smirks.

“This is Loki, my brother,” Thor says, clapping Loki too hard on the back. Loki hides his flinch this time. “He is King of Asgard.” Loki glares at him, eyes narrowed, and Thor beams, and Loki realizes, suddenly, that this is Thor being proud of him, this is Thor, in his own way, bragging on him.

Jane’s eyes go wide, and her expression is absolutely comical and Loki has to fight off a laugh. He is King of Asgard, standing before her, and she looks at him like something too _too_ special. It is another feeling he enjoys.

Except he does not want to be special for that, wants only to be special for himself, for what he really is, not a false king on a throne not meant for him, meant, instead, for Thor, who takes this in stride, who beams with pride, brags on him, does not ruin this for him as he did in return on Thor’s big day.

He is undeserving, is an unworthy brother.

He looks at Jane, who looks at Thor, looks at him, mouths _what should I do, should I bow, wha_ t–

Thor laughs, too loud, too deep and Loki follows, something close to a chuckle bubbling forth from him as well, and he moves to Jane, to introduce himself for himself, to show he is not king but brother, but Loki.

“It is nice to finally meet you,” he says, and perhaps it is a lie, it is not exactly nice but more like something of a relief to finally meet her and get this out of the way.

She smiles tight lipped at him, gazing past him at Thor, and Loki quells the anger that rises at that. And then she looks at him, completely on him, and all is forgiven, perhaps, because she smiles properly then, extends her hand in greeting. He takes it and returns the smile.

“Thor has told me a lot about you,” she says.

That throws Loki, because that explains–

She had looked at him, startled, and then looked unnerved because Thor has spoken of him to her, likely at length, if his brother’s usual habits still stand true. And so he is still brother first, false king second. Thor cared enough to speak of him to this woman he cares so for, and Loki is something close to flattered.

“Has he now?” He glances at Thor who looks away, who looks _embarrassed_ , maybe, and Loki grins. “It is nice to know I have not been forgotten, then.” He says it more to Thor than to Jane.

She nods. “I’m umm,” she stops licks her lips, a nervous habit, no doubt. “I’m Jane Foster, by the way.”

“I know,” Loki tells her.

Thor comes over to Jane, smiles at her, something deep and meaningful, and Jane smiles back, just as big, just as happy, and Loki sees them and realizes that this is love. Thor is not enamored, he is in love with her. That is what has done this to his brother, has brought him to himself, has done wonders to change him, who even Loki, who even Odin could not change.

Loki’s blood run colds, and he feels sick, feels ill, that he wanted to come and hurt his brother, that he had thought to come here to ruin him, when he is happy as he is, with this woman who is naught but a mere mortal.

He feels as if he has intruded upon a moment, and so he turns, at last, steps away from her and from Thor. “I was just leaving,” he says, and Thor looks at him and his face falls, follows after him again, how nice a change it is that Thor is the one following him.

“Brother, you do not have to–”

He waves off the comment. “No, I should not have come, I–”

He has come to make Thor suffer, because Thor is not suffering enough, has not ever suffered enough, not as Loki has, but Thor is happy in a way Loki does not believe he has ever seen, and somehow it lights something in Loki that in turn makes him something close to happy, as well.

Thor catches him by the wrist, pulls him to a stop with that one touch, and Loki turns to look at him. “Don’t go, Loki,” he says again. And then, quieter, “I have missed you, brother.”

Loki aches.

Jane, behind them, seems to step aside, to look away to give them privacy, and there is something there, in her posture, in the way she knows there is something between them now that she should perhaps not invade on.

He could like her, Loki thinks, if he took the chance to know her.

Loki looks to Thor and opens his mouth to speak but the words catch in his throat.

“I’ve missed you, too,” he manages at last, refusing to meet Thor’s eyes. Loki pulls his arm away, and Thor’s words are not enough to change his mind. He needs to go, before he likely does something he will regret, in whatever fit he feels coming on. “I need to leave, Thor.”

Thor nods, something that might be understand in his gaze. “Come again, brother,” he says, voice a deep rumble, and he is Thor, God of Thunder, in that moment, is Loki’s brother, again. “I would speak with you, I would–” Thor knows, Thor will not let his earlier words go, and– “You are my brother,” he continues, and Loki has not forgotten, does not understand why he must say it so often, even as Loki remembers, you are not my brother.

Loki closes his eyes, drags in a slow breath.

“I would not see you hurt like this,” Thor finishes, eyes piercing, and why would Thor want to help him, want to come to him in his need when Loki has not been there for Thor as he should, throughout this trying time.

Loki nods, throat tight, pulling in shaking breaths. He meets Thor’s eyes, finally, and nods a final time, a sharp jerk of his head.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, so soft that Thor may not even hear it, he can not tell, does not stay long enough to notice. He blinks, and then pulls himself from Midgard, from Thor.

-

He goes to his mother some days later. She looks at him, looks up from where Odin Sleeps, and she smiles softly, welcoming him with a gesture.

“Sit, Loki,” she says, and he almost thinks to refuse her, then remembers even kings have mothers, and he nods, moving to sit by her side.

In front of him, Odin glows with the Sleep.

“He will wake soon,” Frigga says, and Loki feels relief flood through him, feels weight slide from him, feels, for the first time in too long, close to happy. Beside him, his mother reaches out to take his hand and squeeze. She is looking at him, he realizes, and he looks at her in return. “All will be well again soon, Loki,” she tells him.

He nods.

“I know.”

-

And later _later_ , Frigga comes to him.

“You have seen Thor,” she says and it is not a question.

He nods anyway. “I have.”

And this is his mother, who surely has known about his two visits to Thor, who only now has come to ask him, who has put Loki first all of this time, he realizes.

Perhaps she has looked down on him already, as Loki has, most certainly she has, but that does not give answers, only Knowing gives answers, and they have but Sight.

“How is he?” she asks.

Loki thinks on the question, thinks of sad, blue eyes, thinks of happiness alight there at the sight of Jane. Thinks, this is Thor, now, changed and better, but also no longer Thor.

“He is well, he is–” He cuts himself off, looking at Frigga. He does not truly know how to answer her, does not think even he can put words to this, to tell her how her son is doing, can not think of words to make it alright again, just as nothing he is capable of doing will ever make it right again.

And it is only him and only her, just the two of them, until Thor returns, until Odin wakes, but Loki is not whole now, shifts between halfway himself and not close to himself, and Frigga stands whole and bright throughout it all. They are not two, but one, one and several fragments of another, and Loki aches.

“I miss him,” Loki says quietly, and she nods. And Loki has seen him, knows him to be well, as well as he can be, and so does not miss him quite so much as his presence, as what Thor is to Asgard, is to him and to Frigga.

Odin Sleeps and Asgard mourns, knows of the absence of it’s King, and everything is softer and quieter. And Thor is gone, and Asgard as well knows, and Loki feels it in the silence of the palace and of the night, and in the quiet cool of the air.

He wonders if Asgard would know if he left, he wonders if Asgard would weep for him as it does for it’s King and for its Son.

-

And then Odin wakes, as Frigga had said he would, and Asgard rejoices, in it’s way. Asgard shines.

Loki knows the moment it happens, feels that shift in the atmosphere, the warmth that returns to the palace, and he steps down from the throne for the last time.

He does not, though, go right away to where he knows Odin will be, but instead to his room, to quiet. People whisper excitedly around him, on the way, it has become a thing that is known, that people have waited for and so everyone far and wide knows when Odin wakes, just as they know when Odin Sleeps.

The air hums, sings with happiness.

Loki dislikes it and shuts himself away, where the air stands cold, still, from his presence.

Odin is awake and he should be glad, should feel more than just the relief he feels now, but he is anxious, instead. He does not know how to feel, know what to do.

Things will go back to normal, now, only nothing ever will. Not after blue, and pain, and sitting on the throne, a broken thing.

-

Loki does not go to Odin until much later, until the initial buzz has died down, until Odin waking is already news everyone knows and so no one crowds the halls now, no one speaks, and there is, again, calm.

He finds him where he was, with Frigga, sat in bed and smiling at her, in the middle of what must be a moment. Loki stops in the doorway, watches them, watches Frigga lean forward to smile back, something happy in her eyes he has not seen since before, and Loki feels like a stranger, an intruder on their returned happiness. He watches, and very nearly leaves.

But then Odin looks and sees him, and says, “Loki, my son,” in that gentle voice he sometimes uses, a quiet rumble, and so he steps in at last, with his head held high, ignoring the ache in his shoulder.

Odin looks him over carefully with his one, good eye, and Frigga stands, smiles warmly at him. He stops before them, just as Odin rises and opens his arms in greeting. Loki hesitates, does not know what to do, and he looks between Odin and Frigga, uncertain.

Frigga then reaches out, grabs Odin’s arm and says something, or rather, moves her lips but no sound comes out, and Odin looks at her, his jaw set tense and between them is an unheard conversation. And then he moves, steps to Loki and curls a heavy hand on his shoulder, as Thor always does, as Odin has always done, before.

Loki doesn’t flinch at the touch, he doesn’t.

“Come, Loki,” Odin says softly, and Loki nods stiffly, feels his breath catch in his throat. “We should talk.”

_blue and pain and the throne, a broken thing a–_

Loki follows him and does not think of Laufey, does not think of come, I would have words.

He does not think of bleeding out into the snow.

(his shoulder burns, a constant pain, but intensified, now)

Odin walks at a wearied pace, slow but steady, each step thoughtful. The footsteps of a king, Loki thinks, but it is something different now. This is not matching footsteps with a giant, this is matching footsteps with his father, and Odin moves so that Loki has no trouble.

“Your mother says you have touched the casket,” he says, at last, after too many quiet and unnerving minutes of walking. Odin, at his side, speaks the words carefully, and Loki knows his words to actually mean you know the truth.

Loki nods, throat tight. “I have,” he murmurs. 

Odin nods. “I am sorry, Loki,” he says. “I am sorry that you had to find out the way you did.” And he does not mean the casket, he means Jotunheim, he means a frost giant grabbing his arm, means armor crumbling away and giving way to blue and a hand that trembles, and a monster, dead at his feet for daring to touch him.

Loki curls his hands into fists, presses nails into his palms, brings himself back to himself, does not think of Laufey.

But he wants to know, now, has too many questions, like before. And Odin is here and he can ask, can voice the thoughts that have been plaguing him, collect the long awaited answers, but he can not find the words now, finds he no longer wishes to know.

“You found me,” Loki says, more to himself, but Odin slows, nodding.

“I did,” he replies. “In a temple at the end of the war.”

“Left to die,” Loki murmurs, and Odin looks at him, sad.

“Yes,” he says.

And that is it, that right there. Laufey said weak, said should have died, Laufey said come, walk with me and then bled him out into the snow, finishing what he had started. Loki presses fingers to his own shoulder, thinks of the scars they lay beneath, thinks the source of all of this problems lies in this, lies in this curse, in this truth.

He stops and Odin does as well, patient and waiting.

Loki has no words though, does not speak.

(silence speaks volumes, though)

“I had not intended for you to find out, Loki, not like that,” Odin tells him, perhaps some sort of warped attempt at comfort. Odin is not one for words of consolation, not one to speak of comfort and reassurance. It says too much about his father, about their relationship, about why Loki, now, struggles to voice thoughts he wishes he did not have. “When you were ready, though, when–”

“When?” Loki echoes, cutting him off. It is an explosion, something snapping in him, finally, at when you were ready, because when, when could he have ever been ready for such truth?! When Thor took the throne, because clearly he was ready.

He shakes, a fine tremor running through him, and he twists himself away from Odin, takes a step back, putting much needed distance between himself and the man he calls father (but is not father, Laufey is father, is monster and father and one and the same, and so is Odin (monster, father, what is the difference?) He no longer knows, no longer sees it sometimes.

(looks back on life, on everything and thinks there is none)

“When would I have been ready?” Loki asks, sliding into something calmer, stilling himself. “When Thor was King,” he says. “Bumbling Thor, who does not appreciate, who does not– Thor, who would have let his realm burn?”

“It was a mistake,” Odin murmurs, voice rich with that too old thing he sometimes possesses, the sign of too much thought, too much time weighed heavy on his shoulders. “It was a mistake, on my part, to think Thor ready for the throne, Loki.”

Loki looks at him, and he is surprised that Odin would acknowledge it, that Odin would lay blame on himself.

Odin looks away. “I thought the throne would change him, that the responsibility would be enough to bring that about,” he explains and he looks weary, looks tootoo old, looks tired, though fresh from waking. He turns, fixes Loki with his good eye, and says, “I was wrong.”

It is an echo of failure, perhaps something allowed too long to sit, to stir, to live unspoken. Loki knows little of the Sleep, little is spoken of it, little known by anyone, but he wonders if Odin sees, if Odin hears and thinks while there, while Sleeping, he wonders if this is it.

And Loki feels guilty.

He pointedly does not think of his role in things, does not think of Frost Giants in Asgard, of never has an enemy slipped by my watch until this day. And then he does and he finds he can not look at his father.

“I let the Frost Giants into Asgard,” Loki says, keeps his voice level and calm and quiet, but it is a confession, it is truth born from his own guilt and regret. “I showed them the way in, lured them in with the false promise of the Casket.”

_false promises, as is his way_

Odin looks at him, considers him for a moment. “I know, Loki,” he tells him, at last, and Loki is not surprised, had not said it for confessions sake, but for his own sake, to push that weight off of his chest, to put it out there, and of course Odin knows.

“And yet Thor was punished,” he murmurs, thinks of what it means, thinks of Thor begging, of Thor falling and of Odin standing there, giving him nothing but a glance, not a word, not a gesture, even, of comfort from him, that he had done this to Thor, that it was his fault, and Odin had known and had let him stand there and watch Thor punished, instead, for it.

“Thor’s actions were a result of what you did, but his actions were still his own, Loki,” Odin says. “And you, I feel, have punished yourself enough already.”

He passes judgement on himself, has despised his own actions all this time, but can not say Odin’s assessment is correct, can not say this has been punishment he deserves for his actions, but does not know if it is his place to say as much. He opens his mouth to speak but the words die in his throat and he closes it again.

Loki looks away, digs fingers into leather covered scars, wonders if this is punishment too, if it is as deserved as his own self loathing, as every moment spent tossing and turning and not sleeping every night.

Odin looks at him with an old eye that Loki still can not meet, and he knows, as Frigga knew. Knows his own spell, sees it shimmering, sees the broken fragments spiral out from his heart, shattered pieces (blue, scar tissue, deep seated ache.)

“Can you fix it?” Loki blurts out, clutching bits of broken, ancient spell. Odin reaches out to press a warm hand against cold, against leather and scars.

“Show me,” he says.

Loki nods and lays himself bare, strips away, with too much practiced ease, leathers and armors and stands, at last, vulnerable before his father.

Odin murmurs something under his breath, a loose thought brought forth, and presses his hand against the blue, and Loki says, again, “Can you fix it?”

Odin says, “No,” and Loki, startled, draws back, meets his gaze.

“You lie,” he hisses, unbidden anger spilling forth. “You lie.” The shout echoes through the hall, shakes the air with his anger, and he stands, breathes frantic and desperate and hateful.

Odin shakes his head, mouths no, and Loki drags himself forward, demanding, “Fix it!” Says it again, and then again, a mantra of please, please only angry and frightful. Odin stands, and lets his anger work itself out, (a father, waiting for the tantrum to pass,) until at last Loki stands exhausted, pushed back now against the wall, smooth, cold stone beneath his back, chest heaving with air that won’t come to him fast enough.

He pushes his hands to his face, lets out a frustrated noise, and then looks at Odin, realizes his eyes are swimming with unshed tears and he drags in a ragged breath, says, quietly, “Why?”

“There is nothing to fix,” Odin says, and Loki pulls himself upright, shaking. Of course, of course, the wisdom of Odin. Nothing to fix, and Loki feels a snarl bubble forth.

“Of course there is,” he says, voice rough from his angry shouting. “They are monsters, all of them, and I would not be tainted by their touch, I would not have their mark upon my body.”

“The Jotun’s are not monsters, Loki,” Odin says, deep and quiet.

And this is the difference between Frigga and Odin. Frigga sees his words for what they really are, hears they are all monsters and knows he means I am a monster. But Odin does not, Odin hears they are all monsters and thinks he means they are all monsters.

But then Odin says, “You are not a monster, Loki,” and Loki thinks everything could somehow, eventually be alright again. He clutches at his shoulder, feels the tears slip from his eyes, finally.

He says nothing, but Odin steps to him, catches his wrist to pull his hand away, to see the scars again.

“I can rework the spell,” Odin says after a moment. “But it will be nothing but an illusion, that is all. There is no fix, Loki.”

_because there is nothing to fix_

_you are not a monster_

Loki inhales sharply, deep breath in through his nose, and it hurts, the sudden rush of cool air (a revelation, cold and painful and aching in his lungs.) He looks down at his hands, not Jotun but Æsir, and trembling. He exhales, finally, soft and slow and the air burns on the way out.

_you are Æsir, you are my son_

“I know,” he murmurs. He fixes his eyes on Odin, meets his stare, and nods, throat tight. “I know,” he says again, softer.

Odin reaches out a hand, stirs magic with his fingers, and Loki watches the air ripple, golden and shimmering. “Do you want this, Loki?” He asks, stepping forward. Loki draws himself up to his proper height, not half slouched against the wall, and frowns, considering the magic before him.

“No,” he says, and his voice precedes his thoughts and only after the word leaves his lips does he also think, no. His hand is steady when he presses it, again, to blue and scars and cool that bleeds into warmth. He pulls at his magic, slides armor and leather back into place and drops his hand, at last. “I think– No, I will be–” He stops, can not bring words forth and clears his throat in the quiet moment between thoughts. “It will be fine. This is fine.”

_fine, he is fine_

He will keep it, as a reminder. This is what he is, this is what he can not change.

He swallows bile and finally composed himself as fully as he can. Odin reaches out and brushes his shoulder again. “Be calm, Loki,” he says, and Loki nods in a way that might mean thank you, might be just a gesture to bridge the silence, to give some kind of answer when words will not come to him. Odin smiles and releases his shoulder, and it does not ache, in this small moment.

Loki pulls at his magic, after another moment, pulls to him Gungnir, his father’s weapon, not his, and holds it out to Odin. It is heavy against his palms, an unwieldy weight  and it trembles in Odin’s presence. Odin does not take it, but reaches forward to curl Loki’s hands fully around it.

“Loki,” Odin says, but Loki stops him, thrusting it forward.

“It is yours,” he says, because he worries now, thinks he knows what is coming. He says it first, before Odin can say it to him.

Odin considers him, considers Gungnir and then finally, finally takes it from him. It is a weight gone from Loki’s shoulders now, and he is relieved.

Then Odin says, “It is yours now, Loki.”

Loki steps away, puts distance between them. It is but a small space but it is a small comfort, this reflexive action. “But it is not,” Loki says, voice shaking. “It will not speak to me, it will not answer to me, just as Mjolnior will not answer to me, will answer to Thor no longer.”

He feels he must explain it, must show Odin why, but really he is screaming, between every word, I will not be King, do not say it.

“Mjolnior will again speak for Thor,” Odin tells him. “Soon, when the time is right.”

Loki knows it is so.

“And it does not speak for you, Loki, because it is not yours, was never intended to be yours.” There is meaning in his words, meaning Loki does not want to see.

“Because I am not worthy, as Thor is,” Loki finds himself saying. He looks away.

“You have always been worthy, Loki, do not say that.”

Before him, Odin raises Gungnir, brings it close and speaks to it in what must be the old tongue, in what must be the language of the weapon, and Loki looks up at him, startled. It glows, hums loud so that even Loki can hear it where he stands, and then Odin presents it to him.

Loki takes it, and it is a thing that now weighs nothing, is light as air in his hands, and at his touch it sings, happy and his.

“And now Gungnir is yours, Loki,” Odin says. “As I have always intended it to be.”

_no_ , Loki thinks, curling his hands around it too tight, until his knuckles shine white. “Gungnir is–” His voice shakes and he calms it. “It is meant for the king, though, it is –”

“It is fitting, then,” Odin says. “As you are a King.”

Loki shakes, steps back too quickly. “I am not,” he says, wide eyed. “I am King no longer, not with you–”

Odin looks at him expectantly, and with a deep breath, Loki finishes. “I do not want the throne. Not anymore.” He looks down at the spear, turns it in his hands. It hums with a comforting sort of power.  “I have realize my mistake, sitting on the throne all this time. It is not what I really wanted.”

There’s a weighty silence that hangs between them, and Loki finally looks up to see that Odin does not look disappointed or surprised.

“What I wanted,” he continues, “Is what Thor was to get. I wanted it because it was his to have and not my own.”

_he was selfish and jealous_

Odin nods, thoughtful. “You are not Thor,” he tells him. “And I am thankful for it, thankful for your differences. You are calm and level headed where he is brash and thoughtless. You are cunning when he is bold. You are a counterbalance, his other half.”

_his better half_

Loki holds back a scoff.

“Thor will rule eventually,” Odin continues. “But he can not do it alone.”

Loki nods, understanding suddenly what Odin has been saying to him.

_you were both of you born to be kings_

-

He misses Thor after his talk with Odin, lets the feeling gnaw at him for nearly a week before finally dragging himself down to Midgard to visit.

When Loki finds him, Thor is in another country than he was before. He knows it as England, has frequented the place in disguise on some of his many trips to Midgard for fun, had grown fond of the place for a while, even.

Thor is holed up in a tiny cottage, his large frame looking out of place stretched out across a bed that must be a size too small for him. He’s reading, a pair of small glasses perched on his nose and making him look all the more ridiculous.

Loki does not reveal himself at first, just watches him flip pages in his book, jotting down the occasional note onto a pad of paper beside him. It has been months on Asgard, but for Thor, on Midgard, it has been nearly a year. His brother has been trapped alone in this realm for all that time, powerless and unaware of the happenings back home.

A door opens into the room and Jane steps in, looking rushed. She hurries about, picking up a few things and exchanging words with Thor. They both smile, even as she snatches up her keys and barely stops to brush a kiss against his cheek before leaving.

No, Loki reminds himself. Thor has not been alone. He has had Jane. A small bit of jealousy stirs within him and he pushes it away. He considers revealing himself and is already feeling the magic around him unravel when he stops and reconsiders.

Thor looks up and gazes in his direction, sensing something, but does not see him. He goes back to his book, a small smile lighting his face. On the nightstand next to him is a picture of him and Jane. His large arm is draped over her thin frame and his face is so close to hers it sends another wave of jealousy ripping through Loki.

Thor is happy here, he thinks. Thor is trapped without powers, a piece of himself snatched away and stolen, and yet here he is, happy on Midgard. And in love. His countenance, his posture, everything about Thor to his very core betrays how content and happy he is here and now, stretched across a bed that he shares with this Midgardian women (Jane Foster) with a picture of them on the nightstand.

And not for the first time, Loki aches.

He turns away and twists the world around him until again he is in Asgard.

-

Later, alone in his room, he stands in front of his mirror and strips slowly. He does this without magic for the sake of the calmness the slow movements give him. Piece by piece he lays first his armor and then his small clothes out across the bed until he is at last nude. Stark against his pale skin stands the blue scar across his heart and shoulder and Loki swallows, reaching up slowly to drag his fingers across it. If he focuses, he can feel the faint ghost of magic across the edges, where the scar bleeds blue into pale flesh.

He works at it carefully and the feeling of the magic lifting and moving at his fingertips is akin, he thinks, to the steady feeling of unraveling a sweater. In the mirror, he watches as the blue spreads, painstakingly slow as he unworks the ancient magic wrought across his skin by Odin, magic that he himself had never even felt until he knew, such is the power of it upon him.

It takes hours, and by the end of it, red eyes stare back at him, tired, and his hands shake and tremble as they at last rid themselves of the spell. The sun is a low point on the distant horizon, pinks and pale oranges spilling through his window, and in the light he thinks he looks almost beautiful.

This is what he is. Blue skin and curved lines across his face and arms; his red eyes bright and bloody beneath limp locks of black hair. Slowly he trails his fingers across the raised lines down his face and he smiles and thinks that yes, this is almost beautiful.

One day, he will look on himself and think he is a work of art (he is a god after all, and he is sculpted like Thor but also wiry and tall.) But for now he slips over himself a weak illusion spell, settling once more behind pale skin and green eyes, and thinks this is enough, for now, to be able to accept it.

For the first time in months, the pain in his shoulder does not bother him.

**Author's Note:**

> Alternatively I could have titled this Blue Da Ba Dee Da Ba Doo


End file.
